Image of the Face.

Never could I hope to convey
how that image of the face
made me feel.

High-speed, amphetamine-fueled
rollercoaster ride of second-hand,
playback memories

weaving causally
the known and unknown
like it was nothing.

It destroyed me.
Made me.

Finally, I saw me.

Fugitive of a Bloodletting.

like the wind

towards the night
at the end of this expanse
as I pick scabs
all day, fall

into the pools
rich in anima, deep crimson:
fluid essence to drink,
only to throw it up,
out to you,

reasonably raw.
So sore
and sensitive,
oh: I am. 

Me? Fuck me.
How do you feel… ?

What did the psychedelic
of our blood reveal?

Big Heads (Jesus in Fatigues). 

Suffocating: your sense
of self-importance.
Big ego, must admit, particularly 
for one who claims
to have given service,
been so goddamn altruistic: 

just another self-proclaimed 
modern Jesus in fucking fatigues.
You sure you didn’t just do it
for the bragging rights? 

Its not the world you carry
on your shoulders,
but bullshit heavy
enough for your neck
to collapse
under the pressure. 

Such a big head
about everything:
what a weight to carry.

my sympathies.

Untried and True.

Breathe. Lighten
your load. Leave luggage
at the door, crawl
into bed
with her. Your cup,

it runneth over
and her? Her well has no bottom:
if there was ever brighter
a sign of meant to be…

Let the scales tip,
take a ride. Trip
might just be what you need,
could find your way,
your place on this path.

Sure, come back
again. Reassess your quest,
transform the masque
you have made to conform
with all knowledge integrated
and a build a new voyage,

untried and true.

Went your lone path,
lost that high life.

Take stock, accept,
and move forward:

its all we’ve got.  

Pretty, Early Grave.

Body like an itchy sweater,
his soul scratches, though never
truly satisfies:

transient relief only.
Salve. No antidote.

Pouring all he has into
a cup that will not fill. All
no seeming return.

Must be bottomless. 
Must fall right through. 
Might as well jump

in this hungry hole himself,
lie on the pyre and feed
the fire with you.

Fatal, predatory trick, boy:
can you resist the allure —
that intoxicating odor
drawing you into
a pretty, early grave?

Warm Apocalypse.

Warm the inside of this frosted,
hardened rock embedded in my chest
till it is but magma
dripping, dropping,

plopping to my feet
in a puddle 

or spat,
all over my guests,

surely driving,
more likely burning,
all of them away…

but that’s okay.

Suppose this all was born
to die, anyway.


Not getting lost
in your dark eyes.
I have my own mind
and its morbid enough.

You are my vacation.
Guilty pleasure numero uno.

Refuse to be a drone
in your hive. Call it sin,
fucked if I care:
I respect
myself too much.

No sinking in.
No dive
without surfacing

triumphantly to catch
a breath again.
Suicide inevitably
leads to rebirth:

so cathartic,
so refreshing… 


Fingers puncture
the darkness
at the sides of the top
bunk. After long
enough, hands,

wrists, arms
follow, all intent
on holding

me down,
restraining me.
Archetype of our age.
In the process,

find my power exhausted,
that the fight in me has fled, 
my voice is gone… 

Bound and gagged. Used.

Uncalled-for elevation
in the nether-regions
upon reflection:

what the fuck is wrong with me?
What the fuck did you do to me?
Only sadomasochism spells relief.

This is far from normal.

You twisted me out of place
in time and space,

me to dimensions
beyond belief.